


So Still I Wait

by HotCrossPigeon



Series: Hurt!Aziraphale Stories [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Disassociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Forehead Touching, Happy Ending, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Humour in the second chapter, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Crowley, Solitary Confinement, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-01-31 13:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21446815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotCrossPigeon/pseuds/HotCrossPigeon
Summary: Aziraphale asks one too many questions.What is Heaven to do with their wayward Principality?Crowley picks up the pieces.(Solitary confinement warning)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Hurt!Aziraphale Stories [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1497989
Comments: 213
Kudos: 1239
Collections: Good Omens (Complete works), Hurt Aziraphale, Tip Top Stories





	1. The Void

**Author's Note:**

> SightKeeper (GarrulousGibberish) recently drew some beautiful artwork for this story, please check it out [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23028337) :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having writer’s block for my other story, and while slowly working through the next chapter, this story was born! :)
> 
> Just a quick one to tide you over ;) I really hope you like it.

Heaven had always felt cold and sterile to Aziraphale. So different to the hustle and bustle of Earth.

On Earth, it was hard to feel lonely, even set apart as he was in his dusty old bookshop, away from most prying eyes. Around him, Soho was teeming with life. Bright souls flitted to and fro, just outside his door. Within moments, he could be tucking into something delightful at a local cafe, or chatting amicably with a resident, or telling a customer none too politely to please keep their mitts off of his prized books.

Yes, Heaven was positively lifeless, in comparison. And gave one the feeling of being constantly seen and found noticeably lacking. Though, he supposed, that was rather the point.

It hadn’t taken much cajoling from Crowley for him to agree that perhaps this whole Apocalypse business was best avoided altogether. He honestly, despite what he’d insisted, couldn’t imagine having to stay Up Here for all of eternity. Good Lord, the very idea. How dreadfully dull it would be.

Standing opposite the Archangels, surrounded by white and glass, he wasn’t so sure he should have brought such a thing to their attention.

“But, surely,” he had pleaded, with a dazzlingly disarming smile, “there doesn’t have to be a War.”

He had only meant to appeal to their sense of mercy. Perhaps he’d forgotten that they didn’t have one.

There had been a change in them, then. Gabriel’s face hardened, his grin condensing into a diamond. Multifaceted and unbreakable. Michael pursed her lips, curtly. Uriel glared, the gold flecking her skin shining impossibly bright with indignation. And Sandalphon was the worst of all, the portly angel regarded Aziraphale with a small smug smirk curling at his lips, as if to say, _you’ve gone and done it now, haven’t you, Principality?_

Oh dear.

Aziraphale had the sudden realisation that he’d misstepped. As if he’d accidentally fallen off the curb of the pavement, or miscalculated how many steps there were left on the staircase, and his foot had suddenly met unexpected stone.

“Ah, that is to say -” he started to say, floundering, but was cut off.

“You know, we’ve been talking, Aziraphale.” Gabriel’s demeanour shifted, his shoulders straightened, and he loomed. “About you.”

”Oh?” Aziraphale’s smile trembled at the edges, he looked at them all in turn, “Good things, I hope?”

Michael levelled him with a cold gaze, “Unfortunately, no. You’ve been doing a lot of questioning lately, and it’s... well, it’s not a particularly angelic quality to have, more reminiscent of a Fallen Angel, really. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Aziraphale swallowed, hands twisting into knots behind his back.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Aziraphale realised he was actually going to have to answer, after all. 

“Oh, no,” he said, imploringly, “a - a Fallen angel? That’s preposterous, no, that wasn’t my intention at all.”

Gabriel’s face fell into a serious expression, smile shrinking, “Are you... disagreeing with us, Aziraphale?”

They were all staring at him now. He felt like an ant, about to get crisped to death by the light of the sun reflected through a magnifying glass. “Good gracious, no! Of course not.”

“Then you agree that this isn’t something we can condone? An angel,” he gestured to Aziraphale, “such as yourself, questioning the Divine Plan.”

“I - I suppose,” Aziraphale agreed, tentatively, “however, I really wasn’t attempting to -”

“And you also know,” continued the Archangel, inspecting his fingernails for a moment before his purple eyes glanced back up to Aziraphale’s, with a mock look of concern, “how much we truly hate having to resort to such measures. But you leave us no other choice.” Gabriel sighed, “No, there’s nothing else for it, I’m afraid.”

They couldn’t mean -? They couldn’t possibly - Oh, what had he done? He’d been doing so well.

Aziraphale blanched, “Oh, no, surely not, I - I didn’t mean to question your authority.”

“And yet you did,” input Michael, with a twist of her mouth, “and not just our authority, but _Heaven’s_.”

“I assure you, I only meant it in a hypothetical manner, I would never seek to -”

Gabriel put up a hand to stop Aziraphale’s stuttering, “We’ve discussed this before, Aziraphale. At length.” He sighed, disappointedly, “You should be thankful that we take the time to help you when you stray from your God-given path, and I think you’ll agree that we’ve been quite lenient in that respect recently. However. I’m afraid we can’t just let such blatant and open blasphemy slide.” There’s was pity there, but also a sense of cold righteousness, “You’ve no one to blame for this, but yourself.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked desperately between them all, looking for any scrap of compassion. Uriel wasn’t even looking at him, her gaze fixed on the large glass window to the left. Michael had taken her phone out of her pocket.

He felt a cold panic like fingers on the back of his neck. “Gabriel,” he murmured, “please -”

“Sandalphon, perhaps you could help him find his way? I’d hate for our favourite Principality to get lost.”

There was a firm hand on Aziraphale’s elbow, gripping hard. Sandalphon steered him towards the doorway on the right, none too kindly. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to run away as fast as he could, maybe manifest his wings to really pick up some speed, but he stayed his feet, hands trembling.

He glanced back at Gabriel, almost pleadingly, but knew that he would find no comfort there.

The Archangel merely tipped his chin at him expectantly, motioning with a firm hand. As if he’d already spent too much of his time on this, and had more pressing matters to attend to. “Off you go, Aziraphale.”

He had to willingly step inside.

That was what he hated the most. Oh, it was quite horrible once he was in there, don’t get him wrong, almost intolerable actually, but the sheer fact that he had to take that final step into the void himself, was the true cruelty. No one had to physically push him in there, they assumed he would go willingly, and of course he would, he wanted to be obedient, he wanted to be a good angel, and so, he would do it.

Gabriel was right, he had no one to blame for this but himself and his own two feet.

Sandalphon opened the door for him.

Aziraphale stepped inside.

When the door closed behind him, it was as if it had never existed in the first place.

This was the void. A limitless, blinding whiteness that both stretched out into the aether for miles and miles, and tightened around him like chains.

Oh, how did he always land himself in such awful predicaments?

He never should have opened his mouth in the first place, he should have smiled and acquiesced, and played the fool like he usually did. It never did him any good to have ideas. He should have learnt that by now, this was hardly the first time they’d gone and locked him in this dratted place.

Aziraphale paced, but it was as if he never really moved, there was nothing under his feet but an aching void of whiteness. He sat, for the most part, tucking himself in, because it was the only way to experience touch in that space. His fingers found purchase on his knees and he reminded himself that yes, he still had knees, of a sort, he was still there even if nothing else was.

There was no sound. Even if he tried to speak, to shout out, to plead, it was swallowed instantly by the void, as if he were trapped inside a great sucking vacuum.

Sometimes, his mind played tricks on him and wily dark shadows loomed out of the bright unending white, just in the corner of his eye, on the periphery of his vision. If he turned, they disappeared, never having been there in the first place. Sometimes he heard the lilt of strange music, or the far off cry of someone else here, trapped like him. Sometimes, he even saw people, they would brush past him, or lurk in the shadows, or breathe against his neck.

Sometimes it was Crowley.

He knew they were only figments of his imagination. The apparitions were just a way of his brain, or whatever counted as one to an angel, of dealing with the sudden and startling lack of outside stimulation.

But it scared him, still. It always did.

There was no way out, only a way in. He had to wait for another angel to come and free him, usually his incarceration only lasted for a few days at most. Five days had been the longest he had ever had to wait, and Aziraphale had thought then that he would surely have gone mad if it had been even a second longer, but this time... this time it felt like... goodness...

He almost felt like he was losing his sense of self here, for what is a self, if not a being that can experience things? What is a person, but the sum of a series of experiences? If you took away all of the senses, what was left? What would be left of him?

He touched his fingers together to comfort himself. Fingers. Hands. Arms. He still had them, oh, that was wonderful. He’d never take them for granted again.

Even on earth, he was forever lacing his fingers together, over his tummy, behind his back, just to feel them, to remind himself that they were there. He indulged in manicures to have his hands held, enjoyed a hair cut just to have his barber touch his hair.

It was rather silly of him, he knew, to have become so frightened of this place.

There was nothing here to be scared of. Literally, nothing here at all.

And yet, he felt the deep seated need to get out of here as soon as he could, or he feared he would surely become like the whiteness himself. Unfeeling and cold, spiralling off forever, and yet stuck always in one place.

Oh dear.

Maddening, that’s what this place was. Well, he’d endured it before, he could certainly do so again. Then he’d treat himself to a - a shave at the barbers, or a nice trim, or even a pedicure, and he’d feel just that little bit more... human.

He’d been on earth too long, that was all, he’d forgotten what this was like. He was sure any other angel might have enjoyed this alone time, yes, a nice holiday away from work, that’s all this was. A chance to be alone with one’s thoughts.

He fiddled absentmindedly with his bowtie, loosening it a little.

Aziraphale knew that he couldn’t have been trapped in this room for that long, or else Crowley would have surely come looking for him. Though, it was true that the angel had never been brave enough to mention the void to him before. Perhaps, Crowley had assumed he’d disappeared, been recalled to Heaven. That he had gone willingly, which of course, he supposed he had.

It was so bright he had surely gone blind with it, but no, those were his hands again, and those were his legs, stretched out into nothing. The harsh white light brought him into stark relief. He could see the imperfections standing out against the crisp white. His trousers were creased, his waistcoat balding. He could have sworn his hands had been plumper before.

He had never been much of an angel, had he?

That’s what he was supposed to think about, when stuck in here, how very awful he had been and what he was supposed to do about it. But mostly, Aziraphale thought of Crowley.

Yes, he really was quite a terrible angel indeed.

* * *

He was cold, colder than he’d ever felt before. Almost completely numb. Touching his fingers together no longer helped to ground him, to his eyes they almost seemed to pass through each other like wisps of fog. Perhaps he was finally fading into the white. Perhaps there would be nothing left of him for Crowley to find.

Then the door opened, a darker rectangle that didn’t belong here, and outstepped the archangel Gabriel.

Oh, oh, that was - that was wonderful - oh, thank _God_ -

Please tell him he wasn’t hallucinating this.

Aziraphale’s joints were stiff and sore as he heaved himself to his feet. He attempted to steady himself with his arms out to either side, when there was nothing tangible to hold onto.

Gabriel stood in front of him, smiling as always. Aziraphale could almost believe it was in a kind and encouraging fashion, that was, if he didn’t look too closely. Unfortunately, he’d been on the other end of Gabriel’s smiles for millennia now, and he knew the truth to be found in them. The trick was that the emotion in those pulled apart lips and gleaming white teeth, even in the laugh lines and carefully lifted eyebrows, all of it was practiced, all of it was by design, and it never, ever, met his eyes.

Gabriel’s eyes were always a cool, impassive lavender grey, they held no empathy, no spark of kindness. He made no move to help Aziraphale, even as the Principality fell to one knee again, before finally making it upright, and managing to stay on his feet.

The Archangel just looked expectantly at him and clasped his hands together in a way that flattered the lines of his suit, and impressed upon anyone who dared to look, that he was the one in control. Gabriel always appeared patient and calm, and always willing to wait while his underlings righted themselves. But he never offered them help, he never gave them anything of himself because, well, he was above them, wasn’t he?

And he was above Aziraphale now, looking down his nose at him.

“Ah, Aziraphale! There you are! We were beginning to miss you. How was your stay? I hope you’ve learned your lesson this time.”

“Gabriel,” acknowledged Aziraphale, then cleared his throat, and tried again, because he’d never sounded that way before, and it was probably unbecoming of an angel to sound like your throat was full of broken glass. He didn’t want to give Gabriel any further reason to keep him in here. “Yes, I’ve... I’ve quite realised the... the error of my ways.”

“Aaaand?” encouraged Gabriel, leaning forwards on the balls of his feet, his hands now motioning in slow circles in front of him.

Aziraphale had the good grace not to grit his teeth, but his eyes skittered away, and his head hung low in penitence, “And... thank you, Gabriel.”

Gabriel nodded at him, then closed his eyes with a small sigh, eyebrows climbing high in his face, “I don’t know how I have it in me to be so merciful, but alas, we all have our vices. Even _me_, if you can believe that! The others will surely think I’ve gone as soft as you have.”

Gabriel punched him jovially on the upper arm with a closed fist, only lightly, the way a boss might do to his coworkers in easy companionship. Aziraphale saw it for what it truly was, a subtle display of power, a reminder that he should remember his place, a slight nudge back into the white room should he step another toe out of line.

Aziraphale rubbed his arm.

Gabriel clenched his fist.

They both smiled smiles that did not meet their eyes.

“I assure you, it won’t happen again,” croaked Aziraphale.

“Wonderful! That’s wonderful. See that it doesn’t.”

And they began their slow walk out of the white space. Aziraphale felt as though he were in a dream, was this what it felt like, to dream? He’d never dreamt before but, oh, he had read so often about dreams in his books, especially in poetry, and the odd, hazy quality that they possessed. He almost didn’t feel real himself.

“Ahem,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, delicately, daring to ask the question that had been haunting him inside the void, “ah, if you don’t mind my asking, Gabriel, how er, how long has it been?”

Gabriel was in front of him now, leading the way through the white walls of Heaven, they almost looked grey in comparison to where he had been, almost dimmed. Aziraphale stumbled, only once, and put a hand out to one of the walls. It was almost too much to touch them, too solid. He recoiled, clutching his hands together in front of him instead and trying not to wring them.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said the Archangel, brushing Aziraphale’s question aside like so much lint on the lapels of his suit, “I’m sure you’ll make up for lost time. We still expect all of your reports as per your previous schedule, of course, there’s no need to slack off just because you’ve indulged in a little get away time. I believe that’s three you owe us, now.”

“_Three?_” Aziraphale floundered, feeling wrong footed, “That can’t be -”

“Three earthly months, yes. That sounds about right.”

Aziraphale worried his fingers, agitatedly, against one another. The touch felt like the flutter of frightened moths. Heaven had never kept him for so long before, it can’t have been three months, he can’t have lost three months. “Surely,” he started, incredulously, “you can’t mean -”

The Archangel whirled around to face him, stopping Aziraphale in his tracks. Gabriel seemed to loom above him, almost predatory, all straight sharp lines. His shoes clicked neatly on the cold tiled floor of Heaven. “Aziraphale, buddy, I really hope you’re not questioning me again.”

Aziraphale wilted. “No, oh no, of course not! Silly me.”

“Good.” Gabriel even went so far as pretending to look relieved, eyes widening, and smile spilling out easily across his face, but there was a nasty sharpness in the square of his jaw and the stiffness of his shoulders that spoke of hidden danger should Aziraphale test his patience again. “Phew! That’s a real weight off my mind, Aziraphale! Really. It would be such a shame to lose you again.”

“I’m sorry - _lose_ me?”

“I’ll level with you. It has indeed been three months since we remembered to check up on our... wayward Principality. Between you and me, I’m afraid the truth of the matter is that we just... forgot that you were even in there.”

They... they _what?_

“I’d truly hate for that to happen again. I know how _essential_ your work is down on earth, and it would be a terrible shame to lose one of our most valued field agents. Wouldn’t you say so, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale swallowed, his mouth had run dry.

Gabriel had never openly threatened him like that before. Had they actually forgotten that he had been locked in there, or - or even worse, purposefully left him in there for so very long, all alone...? Was he really that insignificant to Heaven that they would do such a thing? Had this been an unsanctioned punishment?

Gabriel beamed, eyes crinkling, “Well. Enough chit chat, I’m sure you have pressing matters to attend to.” He clapped him on the shoulder again, and Aziraphale flinched this time, unable to keep the creeping horror from his face. “Pleasure as always, Aziraphale.”

And that was that.

* * *

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how he’d made it back to the bookshop. The circle, perhaps? That would make sense, yes, but he didn’t recall its soft white glow around him, didn’t recall much of anything actually. He was quite caught up in a tangle inside of his own head. The more he struggled, the tighter the knots became.

One thing he was sure of was that he had stumbled straight into a bookshelf at some point and had to sit down on the floor when his legs had given out underneath him.

He’d been sitting there ever since.

There was the unmistakable tinkle of the bell above the door.

“Aziraphale? Oi! Angel? You in here?”

He wasn’t sure, he thought so.

“Azirapha - Oh. There you are. _Finally._ Where the bloody heaven have you been?!”

Oh, Crowley. There he was. Oh, goodness, Aziraphale had missed him so. The dark glasses, the fiery hair swooped backwards from his forehead like the crest of a wave on the Red Sea. His voice, stark and familiar. And, dear Lord. He was strikingly handsome, wasn’t he?

“Do you have any idea how bloody boring it’s been?” The demon groused, looking around the bookshop for a bit as if gauging something. He must have come to some assumption because he swizzled his head back to look at Aziraphale with his lips pulled back into a confused pout, “... What’re you doing on the floor, anyway? Didn’t start drinking without me, did you? I brought the good stuff.” He brandished a dusty bottle.

Aziraphale tried his best to muddle through the words. There were too many of them.

“I’ve been in Heaven,” answered Aziraphale carefully, to the first question.

“What,” scoffed Crowley, “for _three months?_”

Gosh, it really _had_ been three months, then. Gabriel hadn’t been trying to frighten him, he really had been locked away for that long. Wasn’t it funny how time passed? That it could fly past in the blink of an eye, sometimes, or seem to last for eternity?

“... You all right?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, “oh yes, perfectly.”

“Right. So, er. Fancy getting up then? Or we gonna have a picnic down there on the floor?”

“I like picnics,” said Aziraphale absently.

Crowley looked at him oddly, mouth smearing off to one side. He plonked the bottle heavily on a nearby shelf.

“All right, angel. Out with it.”

Aziraphale looked at the floor, his fingers picked at the material of his trousers. “I’m sorry?” He huffed, shortly.

“What did they do this time?”

“I’m quite certain I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

“Oh, really?” Crowley made nonchalant leaning into an art form. Aziraphale was sure that that sort of angle shouldn’t be physically possible without falling over. “Come on, angel. What was it? They reprimand you for doing too many miracles, again? Send you off on an ill-advised holy mission? Have you training recruits? Practicing your parts for the Christmas rendition of The Sound of bloody Music? What? What could you _possibly_ have been doing Up There for so long, without even letting me know you were going first?”

Aziraphale blinked. His lip wobbled. He fluttered his hands protectively over his waistcoat and then settled them in his lap to still them. Ultimately, he decided that the best option would be to neglect to say anything at all. He much preferred to let Crowley settle on his own conclusions.

“I know you haven’t been on earth. I can, you know, feel it when you’re...” the demon turned his head to the side, abruptly, then waggled a dismissive hand about, and let out an annoyed groan, “eh, know what, s’fine, doesn’t matter. It’s not like you have to share any of Heaven’s ineffable bollocks with a lowly demon like me. Just... wondered where you’d been, that’s all. Forget it. Let me go grab a corkscrew -”

“I’ve been in Heaven,” squeaked Aziraphale again, quite involuntarily. He stared at his trembling hands.

There they were. Still had hands. Jolly good.

“So you’ve said,” said Crowley, gently. As if Aziraphale were some skittish creature.

“Well - well, that’s where I’ve been! I was there and now I’ve come back again,” he unravelled, a little hysterically, “there’s nothing more to it! If there was, I would tell you. Obviously.”

Crowley looked at him over the top of his sunglasses, “Yeah,” he said slowly, “okay. Let’s just... have a bit of a drink, shall we? Relax.”

Crowley disappeared into the bookshelves, presumably to find a way of opening the bottle he’d brought along with him.

Aziraphale, suddenly left alone with his thoughts, fretted.

Oh, he shouldn’t have said anything. He should tell Crowley to go. Yes. Crowley would only encourage him to question things again, and that’s what had gotten him into this dreadful mess in the first place. Well, he refused to be tempted this time. Crowley was a _demon_. A lovely, wonderful demon who brought him very old, very expensive bottles of wine when they hadn’t seen one another in three months. A demon who hadn’t forgotten him in that time, who had probably been searching for him actually. What were the chances he would pop in just as Aziraphale got back?

He must have been waiting.

“Here we go, angel. Would it kill you to organise stuff back there - know you wanna deter customers but - bloody cobwebs - collection of snuffboxes - fifteen sixty-two, remember?”

Oh, he felt very odd indeed.

“Angel?”

As if he weren’t really here.

“Christ - out of it. Hang on -”

Perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he’d been leeched of everything that had previously made him what he was, and now he was no one. Bleached of all colour and substance, nothing but a small piece of fraying white fabric.

“What the buggering Hell did they do to you Up There?”

There was a hand cupping his cheek, and it was so utterly, deliciously warm, so textured and soft, and it was touching him, he was being touched. It was almost too much to bear and yet he leaned into it, desperate for sensation, desperate for something, anything but the empty nothingness that seemed to eat him from the inside out.

“You’re cold, you’re bloody freezing. Ssssss, angel, here let me warm up your fingers,” Crowley hissed out in sympathy, rubbing Aziraphale’s fingers until they were pink. They didn’t get any warmer in temperature, but to Aziraphale, it was as if they had started to burn.

The feeling served to anchor him.

“Hullo,” he managed, blinking heavily, because oh look, there Crowley was, eyebrows crinkled above dark lenses, mouth grim and concerned.

“Hey,” said the demon. “You, uh, you feeling all right now?”

Not at all. Oh, not in the slightest bit. “Wonderful,” the angel beamed, head spinning, “And how do you do?”

There was a snort. “I _do_ just fine. Let’s get you upright, eh?”

Yes. That sounded like a good idea. He’d never known gravity to affect him so much. It was quite disconcerting. “Oh. Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale expressed, gratefully, as the demon grasped him firmly by the hand. “Whoopsidaisy,” he couldn’t seem to find his feet, oh, wait, there they were, still attached, “Ever so sorry about this, my dear. Silly old me. I’m sure I’ll be right as rain, in just a moment.”

Together they staggered upright. Aziraphale leaned heavily against the bookcase, thinking that he couldn’t possibly manage another step. But Crowley had him. Had his steadying arm around him. And the angel managed to walk, to shuffle, under the sure guidance.

They made it to the sofa, and Aziraphale sank down into it gratefully. It still remembered him too, hadn’t forgotten him. His shape, his contours, it settled around him like an old friend.

The angel patted it, reverently, almost overcome.

“You er... you can talk to me?” Offered the demon, quietly, “I mean, if you want. Or we can just sit here too, have a drink. I’m good with that. No pressure.”

He owed Crowley an explanation. But he didn’t know how to put it into words. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Wine?” asked Crowley, a little desperately. He miracled a couple of glasses up, and poured a generous amount into one of them. A dribble of red liquid snaked down the stem.

Aziraphale didn’t think he could stomach such a thing. Not right now, anyway. And perhaps not for the foreseeable future either. The smell alone threatened to overwhelm him - the bitter tanin, the almost vinegar tang, the resin sweetness of aged grapes - it was more than a little nauseating.

“Not for me, thank you,” he murmured, flashing what he hoped was a convincing smile.

Crowley downed half the glass in response. Gave the angel a considering look, and then swallowed the rest of it, with his head tipped back. He refilled the glass, sloppily.

Aziraphale merely watched him. How often he had imagined the demon these past few months, and yet, he had never managed to do the real thing justice. Crowley was all wicked, sloping, sultry angles. A smoothness underneath, the slink of dark scales. The tendons in his neck as he swallowed. The sharp tongue that caught a few droplets of wine on the bottom of his lip. He was utterly beautiful.

“Might be easier,” Crowley prodded, gently, “if we’re doing this, to start at the beginning.” He gulped another mouthful of wine, and smeared the back of his hand across his lips, “Why’d you go Up in the first place?”

He really was quite devilishly distracting.

“Quarterly check in,” Aziraphale decided, softly. Yes, that had been it. The reason he’d been called to Heaven.

“Okay,” said Crowley, and he didn’t ask anything else.

Aziraphale swallowed. His mouth felt strange. “It... it had all been going so well,” he remembered, so well in fact, that he’d thought he might be able to appeal to them, to their better natures, perhaps change their minds towards peace, “And I only wanted to... I... I wasn’t thinking. A momentary lapse of judgement, on my part.” But what he had done, exactly, he couldn’t place. “I think I must have spoken out of turn,” Yes, that had been it, “About the War. I merely asked them if it was strictly necessary. It was only a thought. I would never question Heaven’s authority. It’s just that, sometimes, I... sometimes, I wonder if they truly act in direct accordance with Her wishes, or - or -” he shook his head, “I know better now, I was wrong. Oh, you must believe me, my dear, I really didn’t mean anything by it.”

Crowley didn’t push. “Right,” He murmured, “So, all this time, you were in Heaven doing... what, exactly? Serving a punishment? Sounds more like something my side would do.”

“Oh no,” assured Aziraphale, “Heaven would never condone such a thing, no, dear me, it was less of a punishment, and more a, ah... rehabilitation.”

Crowley’s jaw tightened, he leaned forward slightly. “A what?”

Aziraphale’s eyes had started to blur and prickle. He blinked to rid himself of the sting.

“It’s... well, it’s not a room per se, more of a, er, space, as it were. It appears as if it goes on for eternity, and yet, there’s not enough of it to stretch one’s wings out, should one be inclined to try.”

He glanced up at the demon, but it was hard to tell what Crowley was thinking when his eyes were hidden behind those dark glasses. He was just sitting there, listening intently. His silence spurred Aziraphale on, because he needed it filled, suddenly couldn’t stand the quiet.

“It’s bright there. And... cold. Although, perhaps cold is the wrong word, it’s more that there’s an absence of warmth. Yes, that’s much better - an absence of warmth and of feeling. I’m afraid I quite lose track of time in there, my dear, I lose track of my thoughts.”

He had almost lost track of himself.

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, and he took off his sunglasses. Aziraphale was almost taken aback with the sheer emotion that had been hiding beneath them. There was anger mixed with concern in the demon’s stark eyes and the golden irises of were blown wide with the wealth of it, while the pupils narrowed into the thinnest of slits. Crowley’s teeth were bared, a little fang showing, “that’s torture. You know that’s torture, right?”

Aziraphale had his suspicions. He refused to believe them.

“Oh,” he scoffed, petulantly, looking away, “don’t be so utterly ridiculous. It’s nothing of the sort. Torture,” he huffed, fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat and pulling it downwards roughly, to cover the noticeably smaller swell of his tummy, “Well, really. As if Heaven would ever stoop to such a thing. We aren’t discussing Hell, you know. My lot certainly don’t go in for all of that - that awful poking people with tridents business, no, Heaven is much more civilised.”

“Civilised. Right. Yeh. Sounds very civilised to me, my mistake.”

Aziraphale’s fingers dug into the velvet of his waistcoat now, picking at it in frustration, as he studiously avoided looking at the demon. He absolutely wasn’t afraid of what he would see in those serpent eyes. The very _nerve_ of him. To suggest such awful blasphemous things. To - to lie. To make Aziraphale think - to make him think that Heaven might possibly be - it was ludicrous. And, Crowley was wrong. Obviously. Wrong about everything, as usual.

“Well, I wouldn’t expect _you_ to understand!” Aziraphale snapped, “I mean, how could you possibly - you’re a demon. By definition, you are irredeemable, unforgivable, so, of _course_ you wouldn’t want the chance to - to apologise, or admit that you were wrong - oh, you simply can’t even _contemplate_ it. I’m quite clearly wasting my time, trying to explain it to you!”

Crowley just took his acerbic words, as if they didn’t harm him at all, as if they didn’t sting like Aziraphale wanted them to. “Dress it up however you want. They still hurt you, angel.” He insisted, voice impossibly soft.

Why did he have to be so infuriating?

Aziraphale shook his head, face scrunching up involuntarily. He felt absolutely miserable, and it was surely Crowley’s fault. The demon didn’t understand, he was always questioning things and getting him into trouble. “No,” he insisted, “No, dear boy, I’m not - they didn’t _hurt_ me in there, Crowley. There was no one in there, but myself. I wasn’t restrained or - or harmed in any way. It was merely a time to reflect. An opportunity. To repent for my, ah, wrongdoings. That’s all it was. I don’t wish to discuss this any further.”

Crowley stared, and Aziraphale felt flayed open. “You know,” he said carefully, “the humans have something similar, but it’s been banned in most prisons? Deemed too cruel a punishment. Solitary confinement.”

Aziraphale had heard of it. Had dismissed it. Had known Heaven would never resort to such measures, unless they truly had to. And how awful must he have been for them to have to?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

“It wasn’t like that.” It truly wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. “Besides, I’m not human, Crowley,” Aziraphale explained, plaintively, “I’m an angel. I should be able to withstand such things.”

“Ohhh, fuck _that_. That’s Gabriel talking isn’t it?”

Aziraphale shook his head minutely and closed his eyes. “No,” he breathed, “it’s me. I really am, the very worst angel there has ever been.”

Crowley’s voice was as soft as falling snow. “I don’t believe that. And you don’t believe that, either. It’s all those other bastards, they want to take a good hard look at themselves. What kind of monster do you have to be, to do something like that to another person?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands, and tried desperately not to think about it.“It’s not usually for so long,” he said, because that was the truth, but Crowley seemed to grow angrier with the implication that this hadn’t been the first time he had been locked away, and he continued quickly, “and - and they wouldn’t need to do it, if I wasn’t - if I wasn’t so... You don’t understand, Crowley. It’s a - a kindness, I’m sure, just a misguided one. They simply don’t know what else to do with me.”

Crowley hissed at that, fangs sprouting into being. 

“Fffffuck, don’t _defend_ them! They imprisoned you for a quarter of a sodding year for Christ’s sake!”

Aziraphale flushed. “Ah, well, I’m - I’m sure they didn’t mean for it to be so long. You see, Gabriel explained that there had been, ah, a mistake, of sorts. That they had... forgotten about me. Quite by accident.”

Crowley gaped.

“They forgot - they _fucking forgot_ -” he growled, looking more demonic than Aziraphale had ever seen him, “- that bellend, that absolute wanker! If he comes to take you again, I swear I’m going to murder him! I’ll rip off his arms and slap him round the face with them!”

Aziraphale giggled, and then couldn’t stop giggling. He put his hands over his mouth to stop the sound from spilling out, but still he laughed. His shoulders were shaking now, and his eyes were suddenly wet, and he was still making noises but he wasn’t certain that he was laughing anymore.

The anger sloped off Crowley’s face, replaced with something stricken, “Hey. Hey, it’s all right.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me.” Aziraphale sobbed, because good gracious, he was crying, and he didn’t know how to stop.

He must have lost himself for a bit after that. There was nothing but warmth. An impossibly soft blanket. A soothing hand on his back, rubbing gently.

Crowley.

Oh. Crowley was touching him. Nothing but the barest brush through layers of fabric, a wholesome, comforting, tentative thing. It set all of his nerves alight. It was wonderful, and entirely, horribly, too much. He couldn’t - he really couldn’t-

Aziraphale flinched away from the touch, and the hand stilled immediately pulling back as if it had never been there. He desperately wanted it back. But he’d surely ruined it now.

So he abruptly got up instead, pushing off of the sofa, and stumbling over to his desk.

Feeling flustered beyond measure, needing something, anything to do, to keep him occupied. To stop him thinking. Good heavens, just look at this mess, look at all of these things - far too many of them, all so - so cluttered and unorganised - completely unbecoming of an angel to hoard things like this, he ought to throw them away - just - just get rid of it all - get rid of everything that made him the way he was - a woeful, inadequate, sorry excuse for an angel -

Crowley’s eyes positively burned across his skin.

“What are you doing?”

Well, that was a loaded question. Aziraphale wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. He was acutely aware that he didn’t want to be doing anything, actually, but he had to, didn’t he?

Aziraphale decided to ignore the demon. He picked up a half finished document and despaired, “The reports!” He gasped, “Oh, I have to finish my reports - Gabriel said he needed three of them, I’m quite behind, and I really mustn’t do anything to invoke his wrath again.”

Crowley lifted an eyebrow, “... Reports?” He echoed, “On what? You haven’t been on earth, angel, what the hell have you even got to write about? ‘Day 37, stared into the fucking abyss, contemplated how much of a twat Gabriel is.’ Oh yeah, that’ll go down a treat.”

Aziraphale was momentarily startled out of his fumbling. He hadn’t thought of that. “Oh. Oh no, that’s right, isn’t it? Oh dear,” he muttered to himself, forlornly, “What shall I do? They’re bound to notice if I make something up!”

“Angel, stop that. Just stop.”

“They’ll put me back there, Crowley, or no, they - they’ll ask me to go back, and of course I’ll obey them, I’ll have to - and Heaven knows how long it will be for this time! I’ll only get forgotten again, I don’t want to be forgotten again -”

“Calm down. That won’t happen. I won’t let that happen, all right?” And there was something in his voice that made Aziraphale believe him, a hidden layer of tempered steel, a flash of his golden, slitted eye, “Now come back here and sit down.”

“But,” worried the angel, “the paperwork -?”

“Is nothing but a bunch of absolute bollocks. That bastard was just trying to intimidate you. He’s a knob. Gets off on it.”

Aziraphale fiddled with a stack of papers on his desk, not looking up, “You really mustn’t call him that, my dear. He only wants what’s best for me. I really am quite a disappointment to him.”

“Good,” said Crowley, bluntly, “I’m glad he’s disappointed. Fuck knows what kind of angel Gabriel would be proud of, but I bet he’d be a right boring old twat. Probably wouldn’t even know his arse from his elbow. Terrible conversationalist, no doubt. No idea about wine pairings or the best vantage points to sit at in the Palladium. Definitely not best friend material. Don’t think I’d want to have anything to do with him.”

Aziraphale blinked, wetly.

“Nah, angel,” continued Crowley, softly, meaningfully, looking at Aziraphale and seeing all of him, “Trust me, you’re better off as you are.”

Aziraphale found that he was unable to hold that honest gaze. Oh, how he wished he could believe that.

“Listen,” said Crowley, “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I think... I think they were trying to break you.”

“Mmm,” pondered Aziraphale, sadly, having already come to that conclusion himself and feeling the pain of it in the very heart of him. Yet another thing that any proper angel wouldn’t have, a silly old soft heart, so easily trodden on. Whether that was indeed their intention, or not, he rather thought that they may have succeeded in doing so.

He certainly felt different, not entirely himself. It were as though he had carefully collected all of his parts together, but there were no longer enough of them left to form a whole being. There were gaps. Holes. 

He dared not voice this confession aloud.

Although, it seemed Crowley didn’t need him to. He heard it all the same. 

There was a small silence.

Then the demon got up, shaking his head vehemently and coming as close to Aziraphale as he dared. “They haven’t,” he promised, darkly, “You’re here, aren’t you? You made it out. You didn’t Fall. You’re stronger than they give you credit for, angel.”

Aziraphale stilled his hands. “Do you really think so?”

“I do. Just need a bit of earthly comfort, s’all, set you back on your feet again.”

Aziraphale wasn’t so sure it would be that easy, and realised that this was exactly the sort of thing that set him apart from the other angels, this - this need for comfort, this weakness, this fatal flaw of his - but he nodded anyway, and when Crowley grinned at him he couldn’t help but feel he’d made the right choice.

“Right. Got nothing else on. It’s your lucky day, angel. It just so happens, that I’m quite well versed in tempting angels, me.”

Aziraphale smiled, or made his best approximation of a smile, it was a small fragile thing, that fluttered onto his face like a butterfly, and could be startled off at any moment. He murmured a teasing, “Is that so? I can’t recall having ever witnessed such a thing.”

A boldfaced lie. Naturally.

Crowley smirked, “Really? I’ve had lots of practice. Oodles of practice.”

“That doesn’t mean you’ve gotten any better at it.”

“Pfft.” He waved a hand, obviously pleased at the snark he’d dredged up, “I’m the best there is. Go on. Park your arse on that sofa, and I’ll show you.”

Oh, but Crowley was wickedly tempting without even trying. In actual fact, it was only when the demon actively tried, as he had over the years, usually when incredibly intoxicated, that he was anything but. He rather embarrassed himself, tripping over words, or accidentally setting things on fire, it was all hopelessly endearing.

How Aziraphale longed for it.

“Oh, all right then. If you insist.” Weak, that’s what he was. All he would ever be. The others were sure to find out again, but not yet. Not just yet. “But please, don’t make a fuss, dear. And try not to make too much of a mess.” Aziraphale grumbled, goodnaturedly, as he allowed himself to be cuddled into a blanket and set down by the suddenly roaring fireplace.

The demon’s attempt at tempting seemed to be more geared towards acting as a nursemaid of sorts. He bustled around the small kitchenette in the back room, clinking a teaspoon against the rim of a cup, humming some off-key bebop under his breath as he did so, the sounds were oddly comforting.

Aziraphale watched the fire flicker. Its orange glow was soothing to him, it offered a brightness that was anything but cold and stark. Golden, warming, dancing. He could have easily watched it for hours. 

“Here,” the demon sat a cup of steaming cocoa down on the coffee table. It’s brown surface wobbled and it caught the light, reflecting it.

Aziraphale thanked him, but made no move to pick it up.

“Do you good, angel, you should drink it. Just a little bit. Made it myself. Special.”

Well, when he put it like that, how could the angel possibly resist?

Aziraphale picked up the cup tentatively, but it was much too hot, his fingers grasped the handle instead and he looked into its surface for a long while. So long that the cocoa went cold.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the cup warmed to perfect drinking temperature. Those golden eyes looked at him.

“Come on, angel, work with me here. Can’t tempt you, if you won’t at least try.”

He sipped it, oh so carefully. It was hot and wet and thick and the flavour was intense, dark and sweet and cloying, and everywhere, all over his tongue, the inside of his mouth, coating it in sensation.

It made the demon smile, encouragingly, but Aziraphale was beginning to feel hopelessly overwhelmed. His fingers started to shake.

“All right, s’enough for now,” Crowley took the cup from him, before he could slosh its contents down his front. “Maybe in a few days you’ll manage a biscuit. I’ll get those posh ones in. Sound good?”

Aziraphale didn’t reply, he was still feeling the odd hot slide of liquid in his mouth, it wasn’t unpleasant, it was even comforting, but it was definitely too much.

It was all too much.

He finally swallowed the mouthful of cocoa and instantly wished he hadn’t. He put a trembling hand on his throat, and then down the front of his balding velvet waistcoat, over its nobbled buttons. The touch was familiar, grounding even, from the first days he’d spent in the void, when he could remind himself that he was still real by touch alone.

At his side Crowley sat. Behind his still features, his easy smile, his golden eyes gleamed.

He looked unspeakably worried.


	2. A Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I’m blown away by your kind comments! Thank you so much to everyone reading this silly old thing, I really hope you enjoy the ending.

It happened suddenly, and without warning. Aziraphale was looking at Crowley’s mouth, listening to him talk and then just like that, all sound disappeared.

The world became completely mute.

Not muffled, or dim. Not quiet. But gone. There was nothing to hear at all, not even his own heartbeat, his own, suddenly terrified breaths.

_Angel, _He watched Crowley’s mouth form around the word, _you all right._

He nodded, and swallowed and felt himself say, _yes, _but couldn’t hear it.

In the next blink, his vision had gone.

It was white. Nothing but white, white white white, as far as the eye could see. He startled, stepping back further into the nothingness.

Oh, it hadn’t - it hadn’t been real, had it? Oh, what a fool he was. He had thought... silly of him, really, to get his hopes up, but of course he was still... he was still here, wasn’t he?

He’d always be here.

They’d quite forgotten all about him.

There were hands on his face. He could feel the long gentle fingers and, yes, he would know that touch anywhere.

Crowley. He could still feel him, even if he couldn’t see him. What did that mean?

He brought his own hands up to touch the ones on his cheeks, ah, there they were, those were Crowley’s hands, and they felt real. They were real. Crowley, at least, had been real.

Crowley had been real, hadn’t he?

_\- angel, what’s happening - oh no, no, angel - can you hear me?_

It was like the snatch of a faraway voice on the wind. Like those strange echoes he had often heard here, phantoms of others locked inside the void.

“Crowley?” He called back, but the void only stole it away.

_Yes, yes! Angel, it’s me. Look at me - hey. Look at me._

He looked everywhere, but there was nothing but white.

“I can’t see you,” the angel said, despairingly.

_All right, that’s all right. Shit, that’s not all right. Shit, bollocks, okay - okay angel, can you feel this? Can you feel me?_

The gentle, trembling pad of a thumb caressed his cheekbone and Aziraphale leaned into it.

“Yes,” he whispered, “I feel you.”

Please tell him this was real. His eyes were stinging from the bright white light, and his cheeks were wet. And Lord please, please let this touch be real.

“It’s real, angel.”

Had he said that out loud? He didn’t think he had. He must surely be going mad by now. He’d been here for so long.

“I promise you, you’re not mad, angel, I’m real. Now - now come back.”

But he couldn’t get out.

“Come back to me, angel.”

Aziraphale sobbed, just once, because he had already tried so hard, and there was no way out, there was nothing, he was nothing, didn’t Crowley know that? “There’s nowhere to go,” he pleaded, trying to make the other understand.

“There is. There fucking is! Nghhh, I’m bad at this, aren’t I? Fuck - Let’s uh, let’s just sit you down, there you go, angel. Hold onto me.”

Aziraphale looked around, panicked, at the ever expansive void of white.

“But - but there’s nothing to sit on, there’s nothing to hold onto!” he insisted, eyes wide and unseeing, “there’s nothing at all.”

“Angel, you’re not there. Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re not there, you’re in the bookshop. You’re right here in the bookshop with me, you silly old sod. We’re going to have a nice sit on the sofa in the back room, all right? You with me?”

“I... I can’t tell if I’m imagining this,” admitted the angel, brokenly, and the sensation of Crowley’s hands grasping gently at his cheeks, began to ebb away. He clutched at them in panic, but couldn’t feel them anymore. His own hands felt numb, detached, as they often did, as they often had towards the end there, and oh - oh no.

What if it had been nothing but a cruel trick played on him by his own scattered mind?

What if the last few hours had been nothing but an illusion, or a hallucination, and he hadn’t made it out after all.

“Crowley?” He called out, desperately, eyes flitting about to catch a glimpse of the demon, hands reaching out to feel the barest touch.

But there was nothing but white.

.........

And then...

Sensations filtered back, like water steadily dripping into a bowl. He was - he was being held.

Oh. Oh, that was jolly nice, actually.

His face was pressed into something unyielding, it smelled familiar, like the curious gunpowder sting of a recently let off firework, and it offered a pleasant, soothing warmth against the skin of his cheek. Good lord, he was cold, he was freezing.

So cold that he couldn’t even shiver.

There were hands rubbing at his back, flat narrow palms, spindly fingers digging in. And a tickle of breath through the curls at the top of his head.

Gradually, the whiteness began to recede, as if it was nothing more than a gentle lilting fog, dissipating in the morning, when the sun came out to warm the ground and the wind stirred through stagnant air.

He blinked rapidly, and - unless he was very much mistaken, that was one of Crowley’s shirts, wasn’t it? Ridiculously fashionable and modern, well, it could hardly be anyone else’s. Which could only mean that... 

He was being held by Crowley. Dear Crowley, who was muttering soothing nonsense, along with the occasional swearword, into the crown of his head. Crowley who was shuddering against him and trying not to. Crowley who was, good gracious, was he - was he _crying?_

Surely not.

While it was true that the demon was more often prone to emotional outbursts than Aziraphale was, such things were normally limited to being grumpy at being called nice, or feigning snappish annoyance at being openly thanked, or acting generally disgruntled at having his ingenious low-level mischief disregarded by his colleagues.

And even then, it was either expressed through a bout of petulant brooding, or a short lived feral snap of emotion. Crowley would mope about the place, napping, and whinging. Or else he’d set something on fire in the heat of the moment (usually the fireplace), break something valuable (usually something vile), or trip someone up on the pavement outside (usually someone who’d been making sordid remarks, or a customer who dared buy one of Aziraphale’s books).

Then they would share a few bottles of something old and dreadfully expensive together, and Crowley would inevitably calm back down, relaxing in a way only a demon without a true human spine could. And that would be that.

It took an awful lot for the demon to react like this. Not since the ark, had Aziraphale felt such abject misery. It clung to the demon like a shadow.

The angel pulled back suddenly and - and there he was.

Oh dear, oh _Crowley._

The demon’s eyes were bloodshot and wet and his mouth was a tremulous line and he looked shocked to see this sudden movement from the angel, his suddenly intense gaze flickering all over Aziraphale’s face before settling, intensely, on the angel’s eyes. He looked as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. 

“_Aziraphale._” His name, murmured like a prayer.

Whatever had happened? Crowley looked heartbroken.

“Are you all right?” The angel asked and his voice was nothing but a tangled, concerned breath.

“Am I... am _I_ all right?” Crowley seemed quite angry now, through the bitter haze of grief, “Angel.” He took a steadying breath, but it didn’t seem to help. He looked scared. Aziraphale had never seen him like this in all six thousand years of knowing him, used to such things being hidden behind dark lenses, or filtered through the curve of smirking lips and dark humour.

Anger was demonic, and Crowley expressed it freely, even pretended to feel it at times. But sorrow...

What on earth had gotten the demon into such a state?

“You’ve been gone for _hours_. Don’t you remember what happened? You wouldn’t - you weren’t here, and I couldn’t bring you back from wherever you’d gone - and you were _gone_. You weren’t responding to me! To anything. Shit, I thought - I thought...”

Aziraphale cupped the demon’s cheek and Crowley stiffened at the contact, golden eyes wild and searching.

“Goodness me,” murmured Aziraphale, “You’re quite the most beautiful hallucination I’ve ever seen.” 

Two clawed hands gripped at his upper arms. And oh, it hurt. That was new. “Jesus H. _Christ_. I’m _not_ a bloody hallucination, angel! Listen to me, you wonderful idiot. I’m the real deal, I can promise you that. Fuck... fucking shitty wanky bollocking Heaven! Look what they’ve _done_ to you.”

“But you can’t be real,” breathed Aziraphale, confused by the hallucination’s ire, “you can’t be here with me. I’m so hopelessly lost, Crowley. I couldn’t bare for you to be lost too.”

Crowley grit his teeth and scrunched up his eyes, “No, no no no. You’re not lost. You’re not lost, you’re not there anymore. You got out, remember?”

The poor thing seemed frightfully distressed. It was odd for Aziraphale to dream up this version of Crowley, one very seldom seen except in extreme situations. Usually the hallucination was more of a slinking, mischievous entity. Tempting him into shadows that weren’t there. Even if he wasn’t real, the angel felt the need to comfort him.

“My dear boy,” explained Aziraphale, gently, “there is no way out. I’ve tried everything, but it only goes on and on.” He patted the demon’s hand, lightly, where it was still clutching at the fabric of his sleeve.

“Fuck’s sake! You’re not listening! Just fucking listen! Feel this?” His fingers tightened their grip, nails biting into Aziraphale’s skin. “This is real! This right here! I’m real.”

Aziraphale looked at him sadly, chin wobbling. He knew his own mind could be cruel, but that didn’t make it any easier. “You always say that, my dear. I shan’t fall for your wiles today.”

Crowley let out a sound of frustration that growled in his throat and scrabbled through gritted teeth. “Would your hallucination do this?!”

He cupped the angel’s face, and gently, gently pressed his own forehead against Aziraphale’s.

The touch grounded him.

And sensation bloomed like a rose, the world unfurled, and he almost gasped at the flurry of commotion all around him, the sound of cars passing on the street outside, people walking, the smell of old pages, leather bindings and dried ink, and of Crowley so close to him, the feel of Crowley’s breath tickling at his lips, of Crowley’s hands, of Crowley shaking against him.

No, his hallucination had never done this before. But, “I should have very much liked it to,” whispered the angel.

“There. See, angel? Must be real.”

Aziraphale blinked, dazedly, and still there was no white, there was only the demon.

The demon who was looking at him with such visceral hope that it hurt to see. “You finally with me, angel?” Crowley asked him, and the angel wanted to nod, to reassure, but didn’t want to disturb this, whatever this strange thing was between them. He didn’t want to break their contact in any way, in case the demon should let him go. Because if Crowley let him go now, that would be it, he would surely drift back into the aether and be lost.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, carefully, “Yes, I believe so.”

Crowley let out a strangled breath at his response, closing his eyes and leaning more heavily against Aziraphale in relief. “Ohhhhh thank fuck.” He whispered, “Thank _fuck_.”

A minute passed, but the demon didn’t move away, he opened those wild eyes and held Aziraphale’s gaze for a long moment, their foreheads still pressed together. It was quite the most wonderful thing Aziraphale had ever felt.

“Don’t do that again,” Crowley intoned, and it didn’t sound like a request, or even an order, it sounded like a promise. As if the demon weren’t going to let him. As if he’d sink his claws in and drag the angel back.

Aziraphale leaned his body closer still, hungry for contact. Their noses were next to one another, and he lifted both hands until they were on the demon’s face. So much of their skin was touching now, and he realised that he couldn’t be making this up, couldn’t possibly be imagining it. He’d never think of something so perfect, never be able to capture it with his mind’s eye.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale murmured, and if he moved but a hair’s breadth forward, those lips would be flush against his, “I don’t know what came over me. I know this is real.”

_No. I hope this is real. And oh Lord, if it’s not, if it’s not, then please, I’ll take it anyway,_ thought Aziraphale, desperately, _I’ll take this dream world, if only you let me have this. Let me have him._

Crowley licked his lips. And the demon was so close that his tongue moistened Aziraphale’s as well. The softest, barest brush of wet. The demon’s eyes held his with such an intensity, as if daring him to say anything, to do something.

Aziraphale tipped them forward, tipped them over, tipped them together until they were entwined. Lips met and opened against one another.

Crowley let out a startled noise, and then melted into him, desperately.

And oh, this. This for eternity. Lock him up in this, and throw away the key.

This was reality, it had to be. They’d never done this before. Mouths meeting in this strange dance. He had no point of reference for this, it wasn’t something his mind could ever emulate. The taste of Crowley.

Though Aziraphale was sitting, he could almost feel it, the exact moment, when his feet finally settled firmly on the ground. The Earth was there, with all its delightful comforts, life bursting into being all around him.

And he was kissing Crowley, the real Crowley.

It was as if he had been lit up from within. The demon’s lips were soft and warm, but also slick and devilish. Sinfully needy, with the promise of sharp teeth beneath. The angel never wanted to do anything else but this.

And then -

Crowley wrenched himself away. It was rather awful of him. Aziraphale almost keened at the loss.

“Wait.” The demon squeaked, “Wait wait _wait_ \- holy _shit._ I can’t believe I’m actually telling you to wait - but just - shit. Slow down a second.”

Aziraphale blinked, dreamily. Already missing the deliciously soft pressure against his lips, and a little annoyed that it had been taken away so soon. Surely, Crowley could leave whatever he had to say until later. Much later, preferably. Yes, he was certain that the kissing should resume quite promptly, thank you very much.

“Hmm?” He hummed, impatiently.

Crowley looked slightly panicked. A blush rendered the tip of his pointed nose red, yellow eyes blown wide and hopeful. “Aziraphale, you’re with me, right? Not delusional, or anything, yeah? You know you’re kissing me, don’t you?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help it.

He formed his face into one of mock horror, and a hand flew to his mouth. “Good gracious!” He said, blue eyes crinkling up in amusement, “Is that you, Crowley? Oh no! Oh dear! How terribly embarrassing! I thought you were Gabriel.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open, and he flapped it for all of two glorious seconds, before scowling and hissing out an incredible forked tongue.

Good Lord, thought Aziraphale, look at that _tongue._

The demon jabbed an irate finger in the angel’s face, “Oh, you - you utter _bastard._ And to think I was actually _worried_ about you - you sodding - see if I ever kiss you again!”

Aziraphale giggled, and settled his palms over the demon’s flushed cheeks, “Actually, I believe I was the one who initiated it.” Ah, yes. That was better. He’d much rather deal with a flustered Crowley than a worried one. “I’m sorry, my darling. I assure you, I’m present. I am quite aware of what I’m doing. And to tell you the truth, I was rather enjoying kissing you, until you so rudely interrupted me.”

“Well!” Crowley growled, a little fang showing. “Well, I’m glad you liked it, angel. Cause that’s all you’re getting. That was your lot.”

“Oh, come now, don’t be like that...”

“Now I’ve got the image of you and bloody Gabriel swimming round in my head, you - eurgh, you’ve gone and ruined it!”

Aziraphale puffed out a small breath, unable to keep himself from beaming, “Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley. Now, if we are quite clear on the issues of consent, I’d very much like to kiss you again.”

“Nope, no way, not after that. Christ, I’m gonna need to bleach my brain.”

“I’m sure I can distract you...” the angel promised, with a radiant smile, “if only you’d let me.”

Crowley managed to hold out for a whopping four and a half seconds before he closed the distance between them, with a snarl.

And, oh.

Oh.

After the initial nip of teeth - Crowley hadn’t completely forgiven him - it settled into something delicate, and achingly soft.

As if the other knew exactly how precious this moment was, how fragile, how breakable, and if they moved too fast, pressed too roughly, it was sure to shatter, as thin as tapered crystal, as fleeting as gossamer, and all would be lost.

Aziraphale broke the kiss this time.

Their breaths ghosted over one another’s damp lips.

It was too much. Too blissful, too perfect. Aziraphale was full to the brim, overflowing. The angel ducked his head a little with a soft noise, pressing his forehead to Crowley’s cheek, lest he lose himself in the sensation. Already, he was woozy with love. Bleary eyed with it.

“I know I’m a good kisser,” grumbled Crowley, “but you’re practically swooning.” He paused, stiffening when Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to reply just yet. “You all right? Hey. You still with me? This was too much, wasn’t it? Christ, of course it was. No contact for three months and I go and - stupid. _Stupid._ Sorry. I’m really sorry, I mean - sod it, it was your own bloody fault ‘cause you started it, but I’m sorry anyway -”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale managed to say, once he’d gathered enough of himself back together, “I’m all right.” He wasn’t. He felt a slightly hysterical giggle burst out of him, quite involuntarily. He bit it back behind a wobbly smile. Whoops. Perhaps he’d overindulged a little. He quickly fished around for a distraction from his rapidly deteriorating mental state, and settled on, “Do you know, my dear, you’re a much better kisser than Gabriel.”

It had the desired effect. “_Christ!_ Don’t even joke about that! That’s _disgusting._”

Aziraphale giggled again, and it ended in soft pants of slightly panicked breath. 

Oh dear, perhaps he ought to lie down. He thought he might be getting a little over stimulated.

Crowley gave him a considering look and then gently eased him down onto the sofa. As if he’d read his mind. Oh, really, why did the demon have to be so infuriatingly understanding? It was grating, is what it was. And terribly annoying. Or, well, it should have been, but somehow it wasn’t at all. Aziraphale pouted and pulled the demon on top of him, before he could think better of it.

“Oof!” Yelped Crowley.

Aziraphale put his arms around him, and it was gloriously, horribly, deliciously painful.

He thought he might just discorporate from the feeling.

Every part of the angel that touched the demon burned like the lick of a flame. His very soul was on fire. A warm, crackling, encompassing heat, that chased away the cold. Aziraphale trembled under the intensity of it, forehead creasing and eyebrows drawing together as he swung on a confusing pendulum between intense pleasure and debilitating pain.

“Stay with me,” he said, through the haze. And it wasn’t a question, because he knew that Crowley would do as he asked, he knew it as surely as he knew anything. Even when the angel was being completely ridiculous, Crowley would never deny him.

“Ffff.” Came the disgruntled reply, “Can’t bloody leave under your angelic chokehold, can I? Geroff. Lemme just... get comfy... oi, shift over, will you? Mn. There. S’better.”

They were side by side, now. Close but not touching.

_Take it slow,_ Crowley told him, without words. It was written in the lines of his face, the soft understanding in his golden eyes. _Go at your own pace, you idiot. It’s all right. I’ll still be here, I’m not going anywhere._

The angel believed him.

“... You haven’t really snogged Gabriel, have you?”

Aziraphale laughed, “Good Lord, of course not! You silly old thing. I have standards.”

Crowley looked ridiculously pleased at having met said standards, he covered it with a wry twist of his lips. “Right. Good. ‘Cause I already have several good reasons to kill him. But this one would take the fucking biscuit. He’s done enough damage already.”

Indeed he had. Aziraphale was shaking with it. The angel offered up a small snort, rolling his eyes. “Honestly. You can’t go around _killing_ archangels, willy nilly, Crowley. Someone is bound to notice.”

Crowley merely grumbled about the use of the phrase ‘willy nilly’, but was clearly hatching plans in that devious head of his. Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised if something suddenly and spontaneously befell the Archangel Gabriel in the days to come.

He couldn’t say he wasn’t looking forward to it.

They lay next to each other, and Aziraphale basked in their closeness, as if warming himself by the hearth.

Crowley was looking at him. Mapping his face with his gaze. He looked to be hovering somewhere between concern and awe.

“... You need anything? I can go make tea, or something. Pop down to that bakery on the corner. Anything you need.”

_Just you,_ thought Aziraphale. But he shook his head and said nothing.

“Kay, then. I can get up, though, if you want. Sit in the chair for a bit, give you some more space? Can’t be that comfortable.”

“No,” Good heavens, that sounded perfectly awful. “No, thank you.” The angel amended and then, somewhat desperately, he sought Crowley’s hand. Carefully intwined their fingers. Shuddered at the feel of Crowley’s slender hand weaved between his own.

Crowley gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.

“You ground me,” whispered Aziraphale, honestly. Unable to stop himself. “When you’re close, I mean. I... I feel as if I’m real again.”

“That so?” Crowley’s eyes glittered mischievously, a smirk curling at his lips, “Well. Let me know when you fancy some more grounding, angel.”

Now.

He wanted it now, oh, he wanted it this very moment. Desperately.

He wanted nothing more than to taste those smirking lips again, dip inside to the tantalising heat of him, find that wicked tongue, render Crowley speechless. Press against him, around him, into him. Until he was certain of how real they both were.

But it was too much. He wasn’t ready for it. He’d surely burst apart at the seams. Come undone, unravelled, dispersed into nothing but particles of white.

Aziraphale licked his lips, “Might I... might I hold you, my dear?” he asked instead, gingerly.

Crowley looked at him with such stupidly open fondness, then, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. Good gracious, he looked ridiculous. Completely lovesick. How _wonderful._

The demon was gentle, impossibly so, as he edged forward. Not touching, but searching Aziraphale’s face for any sign of discomfort. Seemingly knowing that what the angel truly craved, he couldn’t handle just yet.

“If you want,” the demon breathed. “Just don’t make a habit of it.”

The curve of Crowley’s spine was just as serpentine as it appeared, firm and intoxicatingly bendy. Aziraphale pressed his fingers against it, smoothed a palm over the warm skin.

There was a trembling in his fingertips, but it was slowly ebbing away, soothed by the touch.

“That helping, is it, angel?” mumbled Crowley into the angel’s ear, he sounded a little sleepy, “Fondling me?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale murmured back, “immensely.”

“Mmm. Don’t mind it, I s’pose,” grunted the demon, stretching like a cat, and smushing his face into the sofa cushions, “S’nice.”

They lay like that, together, for the rest of the night. 

And Aziraphale found that the cold harsh white that had been plaguing his soul, was slowly eclipsed by a warm devilish gold.

* * *

It had taken a long while for the angel to truly calm. Crowley had been loathe to leave him alone in the weeks that followed. Only popping out for the direst of tasks, a few hours at a time, a day or two at most. He did some food runs, picked up some of the angel’s favourite wine, and on his way out, told any particularly persistent customers hanging around outside to bugger off.

The angel no longer flinched at loud noises, or dropped cups of tea from trembling fingers. He hadn’t had another episode, at least, not from what Crowley could tell. He had settled, slowly, like sediment stirred up in a river.

He wasn’t all right, not all the time, but he was getting there.

Aziraphale seemed to need to be touched, little and often. When they sat together, the angel would be the first to reach out a hand, placing it on the demon’s knee, or touching gently at his curled fingers. Their shoes would playfully knock together, and, after a single glass of wine consumed slowly over the course of an hour, Aziraphale might lean his head carefully against Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley had never been so happy, in his damned life.

And - and they even got to kiss every now and then. Little, gentle kisses... That, yes, all right, sometimes descended into a fair bit of frenzied snogging - completely by accident - before one or the other had the sense to pull back. 

It was usually Crowley who put a stop to it, because the angel was smiling too dopily and making silly sounds and the demon would rather poke his own eye out than take advantage of Aziraphale when the angel was clearly loopy on endorphins. 

They’d take it slow. Well, slow _ish_. He was a demon, he couldn’t be held fully responsible for letting it go on a bit too long, sometimes. Anyway, it blew Crowley’s mind every single time it happened. Every time the angel... looked at him like that. Like an idiot. Like he was completely besotted.

Made him feel all kinds of uncomfortable, wiggly things, that no respectable demon had any business feeling.

Good job he wasn’t a respectable demon, eh?

And, well. Shit, if he was truly honest with himself, he’d been terrified of losing the idiot for a moment there. Clutching at Aziraphale’s lifeless corporation on that sofa. Shaking him, and cursing him, and not really understanding what the Heaven had happened, but aware that something was deathly wrong with the angel. 

It was like holding a corpse, a shell. Aziraphale had been blank faced and cold, and there was no sparkle of recognition in those grey eyes, no exasperated crinkle of crow’s feet, no mischievous purse of his pink lips. Nothing of Aziraphale left at all. And, well, sod everything, the demon had felt completely lost himself for a bit then, too.

But the angel had come back. Eventually. The beautiful bastard. So, there was no use worrying about it, right? 

Because Crowley would _never let it happen again._

Speaking of...

The angel had been called out today, for a meeting with the Archangel Michael. 

The only reason the demon hadn’t sneakily followed, or curled up in the angel’s coat pocket as a tiny, but still rather poisonous snake, was because Aziraphale had insisted he would be all right. That the meeting was to take place on home turf, not in Heaven, and besides which, any whiff of demon would only serve to make the other angel suspicious. He was quite capable of taking care of himself. 

Crowley had grumbled and stayed behind at the bookshop, stalking around the place like a deranged poltergeist and sending death glares through the windows to any human that dared walk past.

He had been on edge all day. If the angel was any longer than the scheduled hour, the demon would be out of this door faster than a bolt of lightning. He’d use every wile at his disposal. He’d die before they took the angel again. If they dared even try anything, he’d -

The door jingled merrily.

There was the angel. Pink cheeked with the cold. He hung up his coat on the stand, and turned to face Crowley with an exasperated look.

“My dear, what on _Earth_ did you do?”

Crowley shrugged. “Dunno what you mean,” he said, innocently.

But he bloody well did. He knew exactly what Aziraphale was talking about, in fact, he’d been waiting nearly a week for this very moment. He just hadn’t expected Michael to bother Aziraphale about it, thought they’d end up hearing it on the grapevine or something. Must be big news.

“Apparently,” said the angel, looking at him with knowing eyes, “The Archangel Gabriel has been missing since last Tuesday.”

Crowley affected an air of casual, completely fabricated, concern. “You don’t say?”

“I do. They found him on a tiny uninhabited island just off the coast of Scotland, trapped in a summoning circle.”

Crowley couldn’t help the smirk. He put his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaned forward, listening intently, as if it were sweet, sweet music to his ears. Which it was. It really bloody was.

“They’re not sure of the culprit,” the angel continued, “but it seems it might have been a human.”

Well, that was unexpected. “Eh? A _human?_”

“Yes, according to Michael, the circle was so crudely constructed that it couldn’t have been anyone else.”

Oh, Michael had always been a bit of a bastard. Crowley tried not to look affronted. “Crudely...? Pfff.”

“They wanted to ask me, as their prime contact on Earth, if I had any knowledge of any practicing human occultists, who might have had access to forbidden information.”

“And what’d you say?”

Aziraphale fiddled with his bow tie, “That I knew of no _humans_ capable of doing such a thing. But I would keep an eye out, just in case.”

“Very kind of you.”

“Well, I doubt I’ll find them.”

“Shame. Bet they’re a real mastermind,” drawled Crowley, “Devilishly handsome too, I expect.”

Aziraphale fixes him with a coy look. “Oh, I doubt it. In Michael’s words, they seemed to be a bit of an idiot. She informed me that no angel would ever use a circle that woefully sloppy, and no demon could be so articulate.” He raised a delicate brow, and pursed his lips, “My dear, were you _drunk_ by any chance?”

Completely fucking sloshed, actually. He’d had to miracle himself a new liver. 

It had been during a rare night away from the angel, and he hadn’t been able to sleep, haunted by a pair of dull grey eyes, so he’d glugged down three quarters of a bottle of brandy, then chased it with some very good scotch, and well, things had gotten pretty bloody murky towards the end there.

“Wasn’t _me_, angel. Don’t go pointing the finger at _me_. Complete coincidence. Maybe even divine intervention.”

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale looking delighted. “Do you know, the culprit even left out some chalk within reach, for the circle to be altered?”

“Charitable of them, eh? Whoever did it, I mean. They must not have been a complete twat.”

“Yes, quite, my thoughts exactly. However, unfortunately for Gabriel, he has next to no knowledge of summoning circles. You see, he’s only ever stuck to the official channels of communication, having never spent too long on Earth, and as such, he had to wait to be rescued.” Aziraphale threaded his fingers together over his stomach, looking scandalously happy, “I’m told it was _frightfully_ embarrassing.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Must have been awful for him,” agreed Crowley, shaking his head convincingly, “The poor uneducated tit.”

“Mmm. They’d gotten his name wrong as well, at first, apparently they’d scrawled the enochian for male human genitalia, but crossed it out.”

Crowley bit his lip.

“And they had the decency to leave a radio on nearby, that played exclusively bebop.”

He held in a snort.

“Along with a selection of sushi, and the complete works of one William Shakespeare.”

The demon’s eyes watered. A small snicker escaped.

“And - oh Crowley, really! You mustn’t laugh, you wicked, wicked creature. He’s been quite traumatised by the whole thing!”

Despite his words, Aziraphale seemed to be failing in holding back a chuckle. His eyes twinkled, and for the first time, he appeared as his old self. Shadows chased away. Merriment in every inch of him, the old bastard.

Totally worth it.

Crowley hadn’t fucked with Gabriel as a punishment, not really. Because that twat deserved so much worse for what he’d put Aziraphale through. Nah, Crowley had only done it to make the angel laugh. Maybe show him that even Crowley, a bloody demon, a denizen of hell, had more mercy than any of those wankers ever had, and when he avenged, he did it with humour. He did it with style.

More than anything though, he just wanted to show Aziraphale how bloody pathetic Gabriel was. ‘Cause come on, really? Stuck in a summoning circle. Priceless. 

Had anyone tried to capture Aziraphale in such a way, the angel would have broken out in a matter of minutes, easily. Then he would spend the rest of the time showing the culprit the error of their ways, and ultimately convincing them to turn their lives around. Perhaps they might better make use of themselves by taking up a hobby. Collecting seashells, perhaps? Or pruning bushes into amusing shapes? Or baking apple crumbles for that lovely old lady down the road? 

And then the smooth bastard would say _Jolly good, well, that’s that then. Splendid. It was so lovely to meet you. Now, do try to keep out of trouble, won’t you, my dear? Mind how you go. _And he’d stop by to pick up something sweet from one of the local markets, and be home in time for tea.

__

He was better than any of them. They were better, the two of them. Together.

__

Crowley took hold of his angel then, grinning widely. He buried his nose into the soft white curls, and cackled with glee. 

He was answered with a breath of warm air on his neck, in the form of an scandalised giggle, and a hopelessly fond, “You ridiculous, wily old serpent.”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I would have loved to have written about Crowley ripping Gabriel a new arsehole, it simply wasn’t what Aziraphale needed. So, take this fluff instead.  
As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read this, you are a wonderful human bean.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hotcrosspigeon)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [So Still I Wait - Comic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23028337) by [SightKeeper (GarrulousGibberish)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarrulousGibberish/pseuds/SightKeeper)


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